


Time in an Infinite Loop

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Crack, Anger, Angsty-ish, Gen, M/M, Parenthood, Violence, mentions of attempted sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1731494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles struggles as a single mutant father, taking on an unruly child.</p><p>Peter struggles with years of abandonment in the foster system.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> un-edited sort of crackship pairing i thought would be fun to do.

Peter's face pulls into a frown, his gut clenching-- it's his first reaction, a familiar reaction to all the other times he's been told of his return to the system, but it's there and gone so fast no one can see it, and the face he presents is stoic and uncaring.

"Okay," he says in monotone, a bored blink that lasts a year to sell it-- he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't care. 

The social worker makes a face, unreadable. Peter doesn't read into it, just follows her out the office door, back to the halfway house of hell. He hadn't taken more than two steps to spot the car, a moment to process the long trip there before he turned towards her again.

"I'll show myself there, no need to trouble yourself. Call in a minute-- I'll be in my room."

He was gone in less than a blink of the eye, his feet finding the pavement in front of the house less than a moment later and he wondered to himself quietly why, just why he let himself be locked up at their whim. Why he didn't just run off, and make a life for himself. He could survive out there, independently. He didn't need a home, didn't need parents. He knew how to feed and clothe himself. He could steal everything he needed to survive.

He knocked on the door, and when it was open, pushed past without a word. He heard the phone ringing as he took the steps in threes, but ghosted through the hall, door closing shut firmly behind him before he could here the answer. He was too weak and unsure of himself, and he would always be that way. He could make it on his own, but he didn't want to-- he'd never wanted to be alone.

They kept him in this house because he was known to be violent and explosive, just like the other boys in the surrounding rooms. He had his own room because he had a tendency to go overboard. 

Peter didn't think of himself as a violent person because he wasn't. He'd been the target, a few times, of attempted sexual assault by past foster parents. A few times was enough, more than enough to start the rumors circulating around the boys at the home-- especially when it was reported Peter wasn't 'capable' of stopping it. 

He was, of course. The world was slow, inching along like a slug on the ground in front of him-- he had hours, decades, months, years, centuries of time to pour salt on it's back, to watch them as they shriveled at his feet. He didn't know what stopped him from doing so at the time. He felt almost nothing, strangely blank and empty. He'd spat in his foster father's face, and instead became of the victim of assault.

After he'd been hospitalized, it hadn't taken long for the word to pass along.

They'd gathered their forces, three boys, and made to make a move on him, and Peter hadn't held back then. 

He wasn't angry as he looked at their angered faces in slow motion. Not even as he broke their jaws and noses, sent them flying back against the wall. It was survival of the fittest, and he had to make a point, plaster across their faces and bodies, that he would not be a victim, could not be a target. Not for them. He was stronger than them, better than them in all ways.

It happened two times before he was moved to his own room, confined there. They locked the doors, but it soon became apparent that the only thing keeping him there was Peter's own will, and they'd stopped. The other boys never talked to him or visited, not unless they needed something they couldn't get inside the walls. The price varied-- extra food at dinner, a game Peter had never played before, and if they were old enough, a quick blowjob given hastily in the bathroom. They were usually terrible, but Peter lingered in the moment-- a human connection and touch that lasted long enough to linger in the back of his mind. It wasn't even about the release to him. He liked to look at their faces while they did it, or when he occasionally did, how there wasn't an expression of anger or disappointment.

In the end, they all got what they wanted anyways-- Peter didn't feel guilty for the looks of shame he saw on their faces. It didn't matter anyways, they always came back. He didn't care.


	2. Minutes March By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, un-edited. Excuse any mistakes you might spot-- promise i'll get around to fixing it up!

It was dark and cold, the park empty of a single soul. Peter'd left after lights-out minutes [hours] ago. They wouldn't notice if he were missing, probably wouldn't care either. To them, he was like a frivolous and unwanted house cat-- he always came back.

He flicked the lighter in his hand open, lighting the cigarette that sat, dangling from the edge of his mouth. He didn't even care for them much, he was just cold, and it gave his numb fingers a distraction. It was just one of those off nights, where he didn't want to be at home, asleep. He didn't usually sleep much anyways.

He heard footsteps, but ignored them, pulling his legs up indian-style on the hard bench, flicking the lighter and wasting the fluid. It didn't matter anyways, he could always steal another one.

"Here."

Peter, usually one quick to catch on to things, didn't quite catch onto the fact that the voice in question was referring to him until a warm thermos appeared in the edge of his vision. He looked up then, at the smallish form in front of him, hunched with one hand tucked under his armpit the fight off the chill.

"No thanks." _Looks like you need it more than I do._ He just a raised an eyebrow, before looking back to the lighter and assuming that that would be the end of it.

"I live up the block, and I've never seen you around here before-- I think I can safely assume that means you don't live nearby. And, if you hadn't noticed, it's very cold."

Peter looked up at the man again. His accent was smooth and foreign. He also noted again that the man was rather small, and that small men should do better than approach other questionable men in the middle of the night in the park. Still, he appreciated the gesture more than he cared to admit.

"No thanks." He stood from the bench and took off in the other direction, slowly, painfully slowly as he had a tendency to do to get his point across. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he turned the corner and took off back towards home.

He only spent a few moments in his bed, not to sleep, but to think. Peter played it over in his head-- human interaction, the thing he wanted and craved, and he avoided it like the plague if it were given freely. He was his own worst enemy, but he'd more than learned that there were always strings attached. No good deed went unpunished or some stupid shit like that. 

He didn't care anyways.

\-----

Peter wasn't following him. He just happened to see him leave the shop and recognized his face. So maybe he'd seen the day before him lend a homeless man twenty dollars-- the happened to stumble across each other multiple times. It was a small city. 

"Are you following me?"

Peter had looked down for a moment, no less-- he was never caught off guard, it wasn't his thing, and yet he had been caught off guard much to his chagrin. The man's smile was amused, not a look of accusation. Peter found that odd, and also profoundly annoying, turning off to the side to walk away.

"No, I'm not." It was only a moment before the man caught up again, keeping stride next to him. "If anything, you are. Don't you have anywhere you need to be?"

"Not at this moment-- and that's odd. I could have sworn I saw you the other day, down that street." 

Peter's foot faltered. He couldn't have seen him, and not because he had been sly and sneaky about it, but for the fact that he had been moving at speeds the average human eye simply couldn't follow. He considered saying something, turned to say something, but noticed that his own look of confusion was mirrored in the other man's face. As though he were confused about his confusion. It seemed to disappear when he noticed Peter's unsure gaze.

"Charles, by the way. Charles Xavier. I own the private school across town."

"Well you wouldn't want your good name tarnished by a klepotmaniacal dud like me. I'll see myself off." He gave a backwards wave, pulling a cigarette from the box in his pocket, but turned to look, faster than Charles would ever be able to notice, out of curiosity. There was no disappointment or annoyance in his eyes, just an eyebrow raised as though in curiosity. 

Peter didn't know what to make of it, so he kept walking.


	3. Dominoes all in a Row

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same note as previous. Just focusing on getting these out.

Charles found him in the fucking park again. This was the fifth time, and Peter was starting to feel guilt gnaw at him ever-so-slightly for dragging Charles out of his way, though he never seemed to mind.

"I'm going to start charging you for thermos's soon." He huffed, a small breath of steam appearing in the cold air near his face. Peter looked at the ground, avoiding his gaze. Apparently not off-putting enough, Charles sat down next to Peter with another huff and a sigh, extending with one hand the thermos he was holding. 

Peter almost reached to take it, as he had the many other times, but before he could pull his hand from his pocket, he settled it again, shrugging instead and looking the other way.

Charles placed the thermos down rather quickly then, and it drew Peter's eyes, his stance suddenly growing wary, as though he may bolt.

"Sorry-- Peter. Are you hurt?"

His voice was trying for calm and gentle, but Peter could see the light quiver of his jaw, the worried uptick in his voice. He wasn't of course hurt--

or at least, he wanted to say he wasn't, but if he opened his mouth from where he'd clenched it, teeth firmly together, he was afraid one or two might fall out. 

So he shook his head instead, balling his bloodied fist deeper into his pocket. He rocked himself slightly closer to the edge of the bench, as though in warning to Charles, more so than to make a getaway any easier. Peter could get away from anyone at anytime.

Well, almost. He had almost met his match in Caleb, his newest foster friend who'd come equipped with the ability of foresight. He'd seen every move Peter had wanted to make before he could make it, not matter how fast he was. It had turned into a full on wrestling match, Peter's room looking similar to a bomb going off, before they'd been split up. Peter was supposed to be in jail at the very moment, making returning to the home a not very viable option.

Maybe he'd come to seek Charles out without knowing it, unwittingly. He wasn't sure of his motives, wasn't sure of much of anything at the moment, but he felt himself as though he were cornered.

He'd been excited when he'd first met Caleb. Someone who matched him, but after the fight was over and the adrenaline was gone, Caleb taken away and him separated, there wasn't anywhere left to go.

"Peter I won't touch you if you don't want me to, but if you're hurt you have to be seen."

Peter's eyes shifted, first along the ground as though in thought, before back up to Charles's face. He nodded finally, conceding, but jolted at the next words.

"The hospital is--"

Peter shook his head vehemently.

"I don't-- to the school then? It's a boarding school, my home as well as other's. But it's late, so the halls will be empty." 

Peter nodded, moved to stand, but Charles shook his head. "I'll pull the car around. Don't move."

So he waited, what felt an eternity in aching and sharp pain. The world didn't feel as slow, as though the pain dulled his other senses. Maybe it was just that the thought of running made his ribs burn.

He stood when the Charles pulled the car around, but had the door open just as Charles stood, hands up as though to help in some way psychically.

"Don't-- please Peter, try and be careful."

He didn't say anything more before getting in the car, and Peter pushed his head against the foggy glass window. It was perhaps the first time he enjoyed a car ride, Charles blasting the heat as high as it could possibly go. 

It was a long trip, but then, all trips were long trips. It was an odd place. Down a winding road and up around a large hill sat a very old fashioned building. Letting himself out of the car, Peter couldn't help but note the impressive plaque that proudly read, 'Xavier's School for the Gifted'. He immediately felt out of place.

"Is it okay if I...?"

Charles's hands hovered near Peter's arm-- the one that wasn't braced against his pained ribs. He shook his head, starting the walk towards the door, slow this time due to the pain in his leg and slight limp.

Charles bustled quickly over to the door, propping it open for Peter to pass through.

It was warm inside, and the furnishings were rich and mostly oaken. Peter felt uncomfortable and even more out of place than he had before, but Charles didn't pause, ushering him lightly down one of many halls, through a door slightly more ornate than the others had been, and then again into a bathroom. 

Peter didn't wait to be encouraged, sitting himself of the top of the porcelain toilet. He paused, looking up at Charles, who grimaced back.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to open your mouth sometime, and nows as good a time as any other."

Peter frowned, but held a hand up under his chin, opening his sore jaw experimentally. He squeezed his eyes shut at the pain, a few teeth rocking loose and into his mouth. It was more than a little unpleasant, and he spat the three into his hand.

"Fuck."

"Fuck is right. Let me see them."

Peter handed them to Charles, and he placed them on the edge of the sink. Looking at them, Peter couldn't help but laugh. The idea that he just spit out three teeth and handed them to someone was an odd one. At least they had all been back teeth, nothing he wouldn't miss.

"Are you okay with undressing, or should I get someone else?" 

Peter paused-- or at least, he paused in his time. In Charles's, he spoke without a moments hesitation.

"I'm fine."

He pulled off his jacket first, throwing it ungracefully to the floor. His shirt followed soon after, but he left his pants on. He looked up, and the look he saw on Charles's face reminded him somewhat of a mother hen. He was still respecting Peter's wishes and hadn't moved from his spot.

"Touching is okay. I'll tell you" _What a lie_ "if I'm uncomfortable."

Charles leveled him with a look, as though he knew something, but he didn't pry, instead moving towards a cabinet and pulling a first aid kit from it. He moved back towards Peter, kneeling in front of him. Peter didn't even get the chance to make an inappropriate comment before he was pushing at his ribs.

"Ow-- holy shit." Peter covered his face with a hand at the sudden impact of pain.

"Sorry, sorry. I just had to make sure none of them were broken." 

There was a light touch on his hand, the one covering his face, as Charles pulled it back to examine it. The skin over his knuckles were split, and Charles set to work cleaning and bandaging them. Peter hissed with each touch.

When he'd finished, and Peter's hand looked akin to a gauzy ball, he looked up at Peter's face, touching his jaw lightly.

"We'll have to get a dentist to look at this. And as for your leg--"

"it's fine. I can walk on it, so it's fine."

Peter didn't bother mentioning that he would probably never see a dentist about his teeth. Like he would ever tell any of the workers at the home about them and admit he needed their help.

"You can stay here for the night."

Peter visibly hesitated, purposefully hesitated.

"Okay."

"I'll lend you some clothes to sleep in and a room to sleep in."

Peter didn't say anything about the fact that he never slept.

"Okay."

Charles gave him an unreadable look, just off of a reassuring smile, a pull of his lips before he stood. Peter tried his best not to read into it.


End file.
